July 13 – July 31, 2022
Anna Setola solo exhibition
“Pattume” (”Rubbish”) is a project which collects poems written and illustrated by hand. It is my “waste sorting”, aimed at capturing bits of my daily life in a few pages – sketched, written or scribbled to bring order to my chaos.
In this book, my hands seek to be a tad everywhere, as much in what I say as in the way I try to say it. For this reason, “Pattume” is entirely handwritten and contains all original erasures and corrections. Do not expect beauty from it, it just wants to present itself as it is, mere refuse.
This collection is a way to inspect my nudity, to rummage through my things. It allows me to give voice to my hands, and to try to look at books in a slightly different way, perhaps more intimate, perhaps more insolent.
“Pattume” wants to be uncovered and smelled to express its own and my own voice, talking not only – or not so much – about me, but rather about what each of us feels, both positive and negative.
Imperfection tastes a bit like ordinary life, and that is the challenge that my project takes up. It does not claim to be beautiful or elegant, but to talk about who we are and we could be beyond inheritance and conventions. Even if we are made of nothing but the latter, the attempt is to look for us in constancy, which is so much an elsewhere too.”
– Anna Setola
My name is Anna, I’m 23, I’ve got a dog, a family, some friends, and a small world on my shoulders I’m trying to manage; in addition to a series of small other things.
Art has always bent my back and wrecked my feet, I started to appreciate art in my high school years.
Art school let me experiment with techniques and learn about art and different ways to live it.
Yet that constant and continuous coexistence also leads to forgetting the necessity and produces a form of suffering and intolerance.
This is the reason why, after high school, I chose to continue my experimentation in the creative field without attending an art school, I instead studied philosophy.
“Art” is a word that is almost everywhere, I believe, from Caravaggio’s paintings to cigarette butts: it is more in the eyes than in the works.
And art is human, so human, a roommate with a difficult character who rents skulls and rib cages here and there.
“Art” is someone and not something. It’s her, it’s not me.
She was my companion and dialogue during the quarantines: it was from our solitude and collaboration that “Rubbish” was born.
She dictated new words to me that sounded strange and that I accepted with submissiveness.
Other words were ancient and had already been home. She mixed them and collected images that had fallen my way, until finally build a small journey, trying to be sincere in what simply and roughly we are together.